


lost & found

by Hectopascal



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Neutral Frisk, Non-Binary Frisk, Non-Verbal Frisk, Undertale Neutral Route
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 07:18:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8392294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hectopascal/pseuds/Hectopascal
Summary: What you pick up and what it says about you. or: frisk never claimed to be a pacifist.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [You_Light_The_Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/gifts).



Picture a house.

Two stories tall, squeezed in the middle of a row of many other similar houses, and made of the cheapest construction materials imaginable.  One front door, one back door, of exactly the same design, and three windows in total. The plaster on the outside started out white and the shingles were once a solid black, but both were worn down by time and the elements until they were grimy and faded.

The inside is different from the rather demoralizing exterior.

The walls are painted with bright, hopeful colors and decorated with pictures of smiling people in mismatching frames. There’s carpet in some rooms, frayed and stained but scrupulously clean, and beautiful rugs laid down in others that are not frayed or stained at all. 

Every piece of furniture is second hand but it has character the new owner kindly improved on _._  There’s a colorfully patterned cloth on the scratched table shoved off in a corner of the kitchen and a sofa covered with surgical-like scars that’s been all but buried beneath knitted blankets.

There’s a lot of clutter too, notes stuck to the fridge with magnets alongside order-out restaurant pamphlets and business cards and hastily copied recipes never moved anywhere else. There are books and magazines stacked haphazardly on the side table (with one wonky leg) by the couch.

This is where style and individuality shines through. This is what makes a house a _home._

It’s what’s on the inside, you see, that counts.

(-_-)

This particular home happened to be the one Frisk—overall average kid, self-proclaimed flirting master, and future interspecies ambassador—was born to.

Remember this. It will be important later.

(-_-)

You talk to a Froggit as you explore the ruins against Toriel’s wishes.

(Actually, you talk to several Froggits and learn some things that sound pretty important if you want to make your stay in the Underground as short and pain free as possible. For creatures that can only communicate by making the sound _Ribbit!_ they’re pretty eloquent. Really your kinda people.)

And shortly after this talk you find a toy knife just lying on the ground.

This might be becoming a habit.

Earlier, you found a red ribbon, similarly abandoned down a hole. After six tries you manage to tie a sloppy bow in your hair that makes you feel cute and powerful. You figure you can always ask Toriel to return it to the owner once you see her again, but for now why not enjoy the fashion statement?

The toy knife probably belongs to the same person.

You pick it up and run your thumb over the plastic blade. It probably started off dull and child safe, but once upon a time somebody sharpened the edge into something that could cut skin if you cared to try. It’s not that thick, brittle but sharp.

 _This could hurt_ , you think and then, carefully, tuck it into your pocket.  Your fingers bump against a single piece of monster candy (which you’re saving for later) and some crumbs from a spider donut (which you ate when a screaming Vegetoid nailed you in the noggin with a cauliflower and nearly knocked you unconscious).

 _Just in case,_ you think, patting the lump in your pocket flat as you retrace your steps, smiling and giving the Froggit by the door a friendly nod. You’re hungry. You’ve got a little more gold than you had when you first found the spider bake sale and you’re morbidly curious about spider cider. Another donut wouldn’t go wrong either.

Just in case.

(-_-)

Toriel’s a nice lady who’s given you, a complete stranger, free rein over her home. If she was any less open and friendly, you might think twice before investigating the place as thoroughly as you combed through the ruins outside, but she isn’t and so you don’t.

That’s how you know she keeps vases full of water sausages—a plant you’ve never heard of until today—and spends her free time filling a diary with terrible puns. Even on paper, the delivery is somehow spot on and you’re impressed. There really is _a lot_ of material here.

You find a calendar a year out of date and wonder how it was printed, how it was even made. How do monsters keep track of what’s day and night when they can’t see the sky? It might be insensitive to ask, but you’re still curious.

Wandering through the living room into the kitchen is an experience in and of itself.

There are tools hung on a frame in the corner for tending the warm-not-burning fire, all of them purposefully blunted, and a table so tall you can’t see the surface without clambering onto a chair first. Toriel regards you with amusement and tells you some snail facts.

It’s never occurred to you to use snails for shoelaces, but you agree it does seem like they wouldn’t do a very good job of it. Maybe slugs are better?

You think, privately, that Toriel would be a good teacher. She’s kind and clearly cares about you and her books are all well loved. There’s a real passion for the subject there. If Snailology was a thing, you have no doubt Toriel’s a master in it.

She’s also very… prepared. Hm.

There’s brand name chocolate in the fridge (how though?) and wet fur in the sink, a pie twice the size of your face that’s too hot to touch and a stovetop that looks like it’s never been used. You recall the flickering ball that easily tossed Flowey away before it could kill you. With everything you’ve seen today, it wouldn’t surprise you if fire magic is a real thing. Maybe Toriel will tell you about it later, if you ask her nice.

But first, there’s one more room to explore, the one Toriel called _yours_ , and then, you think you’ll take a nap.

(-_-)

There are seasons underground, apparently.

Isn’t that interesting? You think that’s very interesting, but you’d find it more interesting if you hadn’t just walked unprepared into a winter landscape.

You’re shaking so bad, it’s a miracle you haven’t tripped yet. Slush soaked through your sneakers and socks in the first five minutes and now your feet feel like blocks of ice. Your tights provide absolutely no insulation at all and your shirt, long sleeved though it might be, isn’t much better. You have your hands jammed under your arms and you’re hunched up like a turtle, slogging forward into the biting wind, and your face is _numb_.

Determination dwindles rapidly. You’re losing feeling everywhere. You’d turn over every piece of gold in your pockets and do _anything_ to be back in Toriel’s house, tucked under that warm quilt on the bed in the room she begged you to return to.

(But you can’t. You pushed against the doors, gently, then harder, after you exited the ruins and found them impassable. Would you if you could? You can’t, don’t think about it, _just keep_ _moving_.)

This is not cold. This isn’t even freezing. This is death disguised as an endurance run if you can’t find shelter before you slip into the mindset of _hey, wouldn’t it be a swell idea to lie down in that snow drift over there?_

Behind you, a branch cracks and it sounds like a gunshot.

(-_-)

The meeting with the odd skeleton brothers—which was so _cool_ , if you remember, you’ll have to tell Sans that later—didn’t even distract you for long. You’re a little surprised the chattering of your teeth didn’t give you away when you were hiding behind that conveniently shaped lamp. It’s getting so bad now you have some concerns about biting your tongue. You can barely hear yourself _think_ over it.

You might be a little bit crazy when you find the box and beside it, a helpful sign left by a box lover.

And in the box is a tough-looking pair of gloves.

Your fingers feel fat and clumsy and are slow to respond as you shove the gloves on as fast as humanely possible. They block out the chill, not all at once, but slowly and surely, as you clench your hands, the feeling returns to them along with an unpleasant needle-like sensation.

Pain, at least, is a feeling. That’s a good sign. You had heard stories about frostbite and people who lost fingers to it, toes that went blue and had to be cut off because all the blood was already frozen. You thought, back when you first heard about it, that it was only a scary story. Now you aren’t so sure.

You try to wiggle your toes but can’t. It’s like your legs _end_ at the ankle but for the fact that you can look down and physically see your poor feet carrying you onward. It’s still really scary.

The urge to rush forward again pushes at you, but it feels wrong to take—even something freely offered—without giving anything back.

Your newly gloved fingers go to the ribbon in your hair. You never did get around to asking Toriel about it or the toy knife you still have, unused so far, in your pocket. You tug at your inexpertly tied bow and it slides right out. You’d still like to give it back if you can but the box looks safe enough. You take extra care putting it in. And so it won’t be on its lonesome, you also drop in the stick you found back by the flowerpatch where you first fell and a jug of spider cider.

(Truth time. You peeked in the jug when you first bought it, saw what looked suspiciously like a leg floating on top, and suffered a critical loss of willpower. Maybe you’ll try it later if you get really, _really_ desperate.)

You shut the box and get moving.

(-_-)

The first time you see Snowdin, it all passes in kind of a haze.

Bright letters spelling out INN catch your eye and then you lose time in a mad rush toward the building.

It costs 80 g a night, the nice bunny lady at the front desk informs you, and you shell it out without a word. You don’t remember climbing stairs with legs that feel like tender jelly and you don’t remember kicking your shoes in a corner, peeling off your sodden clothing and leaving it where it falls.

You blink and you’re shivering violently in the middle of a soft bed you feel quite personally is woefully undersupplied with blankets. You shake for a long time, blind to anything but the chill wrapped around your bones.

When you wake up, dazed and light-headed, you wonder at the very loud snoring you can hear through the walls. You realize you are still wearing the gloves and when you slide a hand under a pillow, you find the toy knife too. You have no idea how you had the presence of mind to do that when you barely recall making it to the town in the first place.

Maybe it moved on its own?

No, of course not, you dismiss the notion. That would be ridiculous.

You’re just lukewarm and kinda sloshy on the inside and still tired. Tired and confused and really, really hungry.

Recovering from a near death experience in the underground is easy. A bit too easy. All you have to do is fumble out of bed and rummage through your pockets for a bite to eat.

Here’s something interesting you’ve figured out about monster food. It isn’t quite real. Oh, you can touch it fine, pick it up and slip it in your pocket to snack on later, but it doesn’t degenerate in the meantime.  It fills your mouth for a moment when you chomp down, but then it melts like sugar candy in a burst of popping static and flavor and you feel amazingly _energized_. Just a little bite and you’ve got the energy to run ten miles, but here’s the drawback… it doesn’t make you full.

So you might be able to run the length of the underground but you have to do it while your stomach turns inside out trying to eat itself because you haven’t had real food in you can’t remember how long. _Days_ probably. 

Hunger, for you, as a human, has always come with partnered physical manifestations. A weakness in your legs, trembling hands, getting dizzy if you stand up too fast, a fantastic headache, and plenty of other bad-gross symptoms. Not so, now.

You still feel strong in body but there’s an _ache_ in your stomach that won’t quit and while you don’t have most of the side effects, you’re pretty sure you’re slowly starving. You’re not super thrilled about going home but you have to get out of here, _you have to get out_.

As quickly as possible. No matter what.

(-_-)

It’s still cold when you step outside with a full refund jingling in your pockets. The innkeeper just smiled and waved you away when you tried to protest, to tell her that she had saved your life _no really_ , but she wouldn’t hear a word of it. So here you are, moderately (?) probably wealthy and there’s a store right next door and how can you resist?

You buy some cinnamon buns and a bandana that practically screams of manliness because there’s no way you can leave such an incredible item behind and you’re instantly attached. Your pockets are getting a bit crowded now so you return to the box (that seems to have followed you into town) and fill it with more goodies.

You need the food to recover from Fighting and space is limited on your person but… you don’t want to drop any of the miscellaneous items you picked up either.  They’re probably really important to somebody and you can’t just drop their stuff in the snow and walk away.

…well, no, you _could_ , but you’re not _going to_. So there.

It takes some creative arranging—you chomp down on a cinnamon bun while you work, it floods your mouth with the scent of freshly ground cinnamon on a summer day and you’re still hungry when it’s gone—but you manage.

There’s a little space left in your pockets and a little left over in the box too so you chalk it up as a victory and move on.

(-_-)

(The near miss with Undyne scares the residual cheer from your semi-successful date with Papyrus right out of your system. You’re not sure what she is, but she’s scary as anything.)

(-_-)

It’s only because you’ve gotten into the habit of chasing down every sign in view that you find the tutu. After the rocks knocked you over the edge of the waterfall, you thought you were done for but the drop really wasn’t that far and wood makes for a softer landing that you’d think.

The water parts easily under your hands and there’s no rock behind it so you jump forward through the falls and find a quaint little cavern, empty of everything but a pink tutu. It’s a little worn, a bit ragged around that edges (but that just gives it style), and kinda dusty, which is weird because the floor itself isn’t.

You pick it up because you can’t just leave such a cool article of clothing lying around and give it a once over. It seems to be your size. You peel the tough gloves off, roll them up and stuff them in your pockets.

You’ll just try in on, you reason. Just for a minute and it…fits. Really well, actually.

You give a little twirl and dust floats gently through the air. The blue light of the cave’s luminescent gems reflects off the shimmering cloud and the effect is beautiful.

And strangely, wearing it feels _right_ even though you’ve never even seen a real tutu in your life.

You’ll only keep it for a little while, you swear, and then you’ll definitely give it back to the owner when you find them.

…You seem to be making a lot of promises like that, lately.

(-_-)

You like the old man turtle. He has a lot to say and you’re an eager audience and he appreciates that. He laughs a lot and doesn’t mind that when you laugh too, it comes out only a whisper of air, and you really appreciate that.

The monsters in waterfall have been very generous with their gold and you have enough weighing you down that you’re eager to be rid of some of it. You purchase a faded notebook and a couple snacks (god, you’re so hungry) from him and nod thanks.

He cheerfully waves you off. It’s a nice change.

(-_-)

You’re wandering around, helplessly lost, when you find the ballet shoes after collapsing in a low bush to rest a while.

They’re pink and small and match the tutu perfectly and now you’re starting to get suspicious.

You run your fingers over the delicately embroidered shoes—also your size, you’re pretty sure—and have a bad thought.

Toriel had said to you before (before she—before you—just _before_ ) that other children had fallen down before you, that you were not the first to attempt to leave the ruins, and all the others had been killed.

Most of the monster-made goods you’ve seen you can _tell_ are different, just by looking at them, like Papyrus’ action figures, but the things you’ve been picking up and holding onto so tightly—they’re familiar. They remind you of home. They probably came from the surface, brought down by unlucky children.

All the children, Toriel had said, were dead.

But you found the ribbon and the toy knife in the ruins.

Unconsciously, you pull out the clunky cell phone Toriel had pressed into your hands. You dial a number you haven’t touched since you left the ruins and wait while it rings, not sure who you expect to answer.

But nobody came.

(-_-)

Fact: once you’ve walked under an umbrella with somebody, you can’t leave them to fall to their death.

Fact: once you’ve walked under an umbrella with somebody, you can’t leave them to be killed even if it means standing up to your personal hero.

Friendship is grand.

(-_-)

Undyne catches up to you later anyway.

She has a lot to say and she honestly seems to believe it all. The more you listen—madly dodging rains of spears all the while—the angrier you get.

None of that is right or fair. To you or to monsters in general.

You understand that there was a war (but you don’t know how it started). You understand that the monsters lost and were imprisoned (but not killed, wholesale genocide hasn’t appealed to humans for a long time but you think this fish lady feels differently). You can even understand that they want out from underground (because a cage is a cage, no matter how big or how pretty).

But you can’t ever approve of the means.

There’s sacrificing the few for the many and then there’s killing children of a different race and glorying in each murder because it means you need one less soul so your people can be free to wage war against the rest of that race.

That there—pardon your language—is some _bullshit_.

There’s a lot of things you’re capable of tolerating, but that _isn’t one of them_.

She wants you lie down and die? Lady, better think again.

You’re distantly aware that you’re baring your teeth, that your hands are clenched into fists. You can feel your toes flexing inside the perfectly fitting shoes of a **dead child**. Someone has to answer for that. Your eyes track Undyne’s throws, flicking from joint to joint, looking for a weak spot in her armor.

You’ve already made up your mind.

You choose to

 

 

♥ F i g h t


End file.
